


On the Edge

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5222366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission goes sour for the agents and Agent Teller is gone.  </p>
<p>He found her there, backing up on the bridge. Her expensive shoes gone with bare feet touching the edge of the metal railing. Her lips are turned down, teeth pulling on her bottom lip worrying back and forth until her lips are bloody. A faint sob pulls from her chest, but it’s the only sound she makes, even when she hears the motor pull up. Her heart swells for a moment and she thinks this is it. This is her cavalry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge

Gaby’s on the edge of the bridge when Illya gets there. Her hands are bound and her eyes are covered. There’s a thick black ribbon tied around her head, a mark that she’s going to be the next victim of the man who calls himself an archangel, Mykhail. He fancies himself an angel of war.. All his victims followed with the same markings. A fine black line across their arms in the shape of a cross, drawn on with a charcoal pencil, a black ribbon around their eyes, and hands bound with a synthetic cord made of black and red nylon. There are bruises up and down her arms and legs.

Her dress blows up with the harsh breeze, exposing bloody knees and hand prints. She has all the markings of the War Lord’s victims. The mission had been to infiltrate, mingle, and gain trust. Then once the trust was gained they were to feed files back to U.N.C.L.E. Gaby had gotten close, too close. She had been invited into the inner circle, dined at their table, and drank their expensive wine. Communication between Solo and Kuryakin had been cut. She missed the meeting point. Her black pearl ring had been mailed to their rental home along with a longitude and latitude printed on the card. The piece of paper hadn’t survived Illya’s fist. His fake engagement ring to the little Chop Shop Girl had clattered to the floor and before Napoleon could dial backup, Illya was gone to the car. 

He found her there, backing up on the bridge. Her expensive shoes gone with bare feet touching the edge of the metal railing. Her lips are turned down, teeth pulling on her bottom lip -- worrying back and forth until her lips are bloody. A faint sob pulls from her chest, but it’s the only sound she makes, even when she hears the motor pull up. Her heart swells for a moment and she thinks this is it. This is her cavalry. 

Her cavalry is here with backup. 

“You’re going to die,” Gaby says it aloud knowing her captor isn’t far from her. She can smell the sickeningly sweet cigar smoke that clings to him, mixed with the underlying tone of gunpowder. He scoffs at her, almost laughing at the audacity the little German woman has to talk down to him, when she’s so dangerously perched on the fine line of life and death. 

He thinks about reaching over and pushing her. Despite the gun in his hand, he wants to push her. He wants the satisfaction of listening to her bones splinter in the empty canal below. He wants to hear the organization that is U.N.C.L.E. hear her death. The river has long since dried up, leaving behind a rocky boneyard. Only he can’t push her yet, he wants her partners to show up first, he wants to give them one good show. A show that proves he’s not someone U.N.C.L.E. can touch so freely. Sending agents to him would only seal their fate for a future memorial plaque. Mykhail’s hand reaches out and his calloused fingers stroke down Gaby’s leg. She jerks, just enough to throw her balance and he can feel her muscles seize up, ordering herself to stand still. She has dancer’s legs for such a small woman. His thumb strokes down her calf when Illya points his gun at him. 

The sound of the barrel rolling is deafening over the roar of blood in Gaby’s ears. Her balance is off, heart pounding in her throat. She feels sick to her stomach, wanting to jerk her leg away from Mykhail’s cold touch. She resists the urge to do so, not wanting to throw herself over the ledge just yet, not when the thick Russian accent washes over her, “Gaby, are you hurt?” 

She wants yell out his name, sob in relief that he’s there to save her even if she can’t see him behind the ribbon. Instead the small mechanic nods before she manages to speak to him, “I’m fine,” She lies. 

It is clear she is not fine. Her cheeks are blotchy, there are clean streaks on her dirty face from rolling around in the trunk of a foreign car while being transported to her supposed grave. There are bruises along her flesh, red scratch marks along her arms, and dark bruises around her throat. Illya can see them even from his place on the old beaten road, Solo is out of the car with his own gun drawn. He’s edging left, pointing his gun out at the blacked out car Mykhail had arrived in. There’s a chance there are more of Mykhail’s men in there as well as information on his previous victims and plans for his private dealings. 

Illya has his cold eyes on the Ukrainian man. His brow is set, jaw clenched tight with his teeth slightly bared. He wants to put a bullet in Mykhail’s head and leave him on the side of the road like an animal. Only part of him believes that even a quick death is too easy on the War Lord. His feet shift forward, carefully and measured. Illya’s gaze slips to Gaby for a moment and he feels the need to assure her he’s coming for her. He swallows softly, and lets his gaze flick back to Mykhail. The man has the audacity to smile at him, his fingers are slipping down to her ankle, gripping it tightly. Tight enough that Gaby lets out a small sob. Part of her wants to pull herself away from him. She can’t unless she wants to fall to her death.

“You come any closer and she goes over the edge.” He tightens his hand on her ankle and Gaby lets out a low hiss. Her shoulders shudder for a moment as she sucks in a sharp breath, before she shouts to her partners.

“Don’t listen to him!” 

He shakes her ankle and Gaby bites back a shriek. Napoleon swings his gun up and in one quick move he has the safety off. He’s ready to shoot the man at the command of his partners. The man with his hands on Gaby does not deserve to walk away. Mykhail’s hand stops on her leg, then travels up to the edge of her expensive dress. Illya advances again and without warning, a gun goes off. It’s too close to her to be from one of her partners. 

The smell of gunpowder is close to her and she can hear Solo’s sharp voice. Gaby takes a shuddering breath then shouts, “Illya!” Her throat constricts, voice cracking as she feels her knees knock together as she feels the world around her slowing down -- going still. Then she doesn’t think about falling anymore. Illya hasn’t answered her scream, there is nothing except the sound of her heart beating in her ear. Pushing all her fear aside, she lunges forward blindly, moving for the sound of the gun. Gaby falls off of the railing and her legs smack against the concrete. Her knees buckle, her shoulder brushes the body of someone and she can hear the heavy curse of the War Lord as she does so.  
His knee juts out and collides with her cheek. Gaby is knocked aside, her tied hands smacking down on to the concrete before she pushes herself up and runs for the man. Gaby collides with Mykhail and another shot is fired. It’s too close, her ears are ringing and the world is still dark. She rolls onto her side. hands moving up and pushing at the ribbon around her eyes. It budges just enough for her to see the darkening sky. There’s something warm under her and it takes her a moment to realize it’s blood. Hot, sticky blood is smearing across her dress and skin, matting in her hair as she takes in a shuddering breath. 

Her brown eyes are skating across the cloudless sky, before Illya comes into the edge of her vision. He’s out of breath and his eyes are wild as he moves towards her. He settles on to his knees, hands moving out for her. Gaby’s gaze swings up and over noting the tear across his shoulder. There’s a small bit of blood across his arm but it doesn’t look serious and it takes her a moment to realize that the blood she’s laying in isn’t her own, but it belongs to Mykhail. 

Illya’s hands smooth over her shoulders and then he pulls her up and easily into his lap. His calloused fingers slip over her cheeks, up to push the ribbon the rest of the way off. He frees her from the rest of the darkness, pads of his thumbs stroking down. He lets his thumb slip along her bottom lip and then gently smooths his palms down along her bruised neck. Illya’s thankful it’s not raining this time as his lips start to twist up into a soft smile. 

“Is Napoleon okay?” She asks him in a soft voice, her throat is dry and scratchy. 

“Cowboy is fine,” Illya assures her with his accented words, his fingers pull away just for a moment, digging down into his pocket for a switchblade to cut her arms free. Gaby’s face is pressed in against his shirt, eyes closing as she listens to the thrumming of his heart. It’s a quick pace right now as he saws the nylon rope away from her skin, lulling her into a wonderful sense of security. Illya’s knife frees her and then he’s pulling her hands up. Her fingers curl a bit as he lifts them to his mouth and then he’s kissing the bruised knuckles. His lips ghost along her fingertips and then along her wrists. He’s kissing the red lines where the rope had dug into her skin with a sort of gentleness he only uses behind closed doors.

His lips are soft and his kisses deliberate along each bruise as he lets his gaze flick back to her own. Gaby watches him as her fingers curl along his jaw and then strokes along the shadowing of a five o’clock shadow, “Illya.” 

Her voice is soft as he carefully pulls his lips away from her arm, “You came for me,” She carries on softly with her knuckles moving down along his jaw, towards the column of his throat. He lets her touch him freely, outside of the privacy of a hotel room or safe house. Their relationship has been kept silent since it began, but right now he can’t find a moment to care. He’s only happy the small mechanic is alive and well, bumps and bruises always fade. With a careful move, he pulls her up and presses her into his chest fully enveloping her in a sort of half-hug. Gaby’s head is tucked under his jaw and then she can hear his chest rumble.

“I will always come for you,” He assures her as he strokes down the length of her face lips forming her nickname he so loves to tease her with, “Chop shop girl.” 

They stay like that until Napoleon groans from the other side of the road. His expensive suit is ruined, ripped, and now bloody. He has been shot. It’s a non-lethal hit, but it still stings and keeps him on the ground. His dark hair is matted to his forehead and his blue eyes are studying the darkening sky as the stars begin to make their appearance, “When you two are done being whatever it is you are, I require a very strong drink and possibly some medical attention. Preferably with a beautiful nurse and some very good painkillers.” 

Gaby laughs, it’s painful and yet the best thing Illya’s heard all day as Napoleon groans once more, muttering under his breath of how his suit will never be the same again. Illya’s arms tighten around the small mechanic and he has a sense of home in a foreign country with a smile playing on his lips. 

“Soon Cowboy,” Illya calls out as he lets his palm smooth over Gaby’s face. He pulls her up and carefully ducks his head down to meet her lips in the lightest of kisses. Soon they will gather their broken pieces and head to their safe haven. They’ll return to being three separate agents, from three separate places, who all generally dislike one another on the outside. On the inside however, things are much different. Eventually their secrets will be spilled and someone will talk of how Illya and Gaby are blurring lines and of how Solo allows them to act that way while cooking the three of them an expensive meal like they are family. 

Napoleon groans again and Gaby breaks her kiss with Illya, her free hand moving up and letting her thumb run along Illya’s bottom lip, her thumb is dirty and stained in red. 

“Please, can we go?” Her thumb slips down and he reaches up to catch her hand.

“We can go.” Illya assures her and kisses her palm before they start to gather themselves up. They are methodical in cleaning themselves up, calling in the right people to take care of the body, and Illya doesn’t let Gaby do much of anything. He wraps her in his coat, buttons it up under her chin and leads her to the car. She is precious cargo as he carefully puts her in the backseat, promising the next time she can drive. Gaby only gives him a few nods before burying herself in his coat that swallows her whole. Illya leaves her in there half-asleep with her cheek pressed into the side panel of the door. The Russian man collects his American friend next, who takes up residency in the passenger seat. He makes a big show of being hurt and even makes a face when Illya raises a brow towards him unconvinced of his pain.

“Tell you what Peril, next time you get shot for the girl.” 

“Next time, no shots.” Gaby whines a bit from the back seat.

Illya nods towards Napoleon, but his gaze is in the rear view mirror on the woman in the backseat as he repeats Gaby’s tired words. Even though he says them, he doesn’t believe them. They’re agents and spies. They’re constantly in danger with their lives always on the line and even though this time they are all unscathed, the next mission may not be as easy. With the current danger behind them, Illya starts the car and turns it around on the deserted highway. All traces of them have been erased and Mykhail’s body will be gone come morning, and his eyes are on Gaby in the rearview, gaze flicking to Solo’s slumped form. For now they are safe and that is all he could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from or where it went, but I needed angst and something to quell it. I was too impatient to send this to my beta so I apologize for any mistakes. Thank you so much for your support!


End file.
